


Smell

by stardust_made



Series: The Senses Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John had been gone for three days when Sherlock woke up as if he’d slept in pyjamas two sizes too small—and that he’d put on front to back." Slightly bewildered, Sherlock finds himself pining for John in peculiar ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smell

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Запах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/622086) by [sKarEd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sKarEd/pseuds/sKarEd)



It’s like an itch, Sherlock decides at last. It starts barely there, then once you notice it, it snowballs. The more you try to ignore it, the deeper the need to scratch- until you do scratch. Ferociously.  
  
Which is why he’s sprawled on the sofa in their living-room, the Union Jack cushion under his head, fingers of one hand rolling a few crumbs of biscuit, the other hand wrapped around a cup of tea. All items and activities innocuous enough, if it weren’t for the two bottles on the coffee table: a shampoo and an aftershave. Sherlock opens them in turn every ten minutes, then waves them over his chest, allowing the perfect suggestion of scent to reach his nostrils. He’s both scratching his itch and making it worse—and isn’t that just the story of his life?

  
***  
  
John had been gone for three days when Sherlock woke up as if he’d slept in pyjamas two sizes too small- and that he’d put on front to back. The discomfort had followed him throughout the day, briefly diluted by John’s reports over the phone (“Still no sign of the old man, but the redhead has visited him twice since I’ve been here,” followed by, “Don’t forget to throw away the Tikka Massala, because I don’t want to—It _is_ important! How can you not choke at the smell, when the kitchen is closer to your bedroom than mine?”). It had definitely got worse after a short but annoying chat with Mycroft. The one good thing to come out of it was—and Sherlock was loath to give his brother any credit, but life wasn’t fair—that he was then able to pinpoint the location of the itch:  
  
He wanted to talk to John. He wanted to rant to John, to be precise. Possibly to sulk around John a bit.  
  
Once he’d got his lead, Sherlock followed it, merciless—only to discover that ordinary John Watson, with his pursing lips, his soft voice, and his steady step, had imprinted his presence all over their flat. Nothing felt quite right without him anymore.  
  
Faced with this discovery, Sherlock wasn’t going to waste time pondering its implications. (And if he had a deeper reluctance to introspect, what of it?) He started devising ways to resolve the issue. Calling John back was dismissed outright. The case was the most important thing and John had to stay where he was. The alternative—Sherlock travelling to John—went against the very reason for their separation in the first place: Sherlock had no chance of passing unnoticed in the small village, where a very jumpy murderer was hiding. Besides, it wasn’t that Sherlock missed John _per se;_ it was _the flat_ that had changed with John’s absence and _that_ affected Sherlock.  
  
He’d gone to the closed door of John’s room with hesitation—John had made him promise not to go in unless it was a matter of life and death. Sherlock considered briefly whether it was just a bit or very not good that he wished there was some threat to John—but a false threat, of course, not a real one! One that lasted just a few minutes, so he could have enough of a reason to justify his going into the bedroom. He knew it was wrong—but John’s room had John’s clothes in it and John’s things all over it, and it smelled of _John_.  
  
This was when the idea had first stirred in him. The idea that got him to where he was now.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock had gone out, frustrated with the itch and his inability to scratch it. He’d wandered down Baker Street, turned left and in no time was walking down Marylebone High Street towards Oxford Street. There was a very large _Boots_ near St Christopher’s Place and that was somehow important. Okay. At that moment, with each step ripening the idea in Sherlock’s head, going to _Boots_ was _very_ important.  
  
In the shop his feet found their way to the Men’s Section, and then to the shelves stocked up with toiletries: shaving foam, aftershave. His fingers located John’s brand of aftershave in no time, then Sherlock opened the bottle, lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply.  
  
It was both wrong and so right. His nose had wrinkled at the assault of the concentrated scent. This wasn’t how John smelled! Yet it was. Sherlock had just gone about it the wrong way. John was subtle, everything about him was subtle—until his absence hit you like a sledgehammer, of course. Sherlock shouldn’t have inhaled like that.  
  
He waited a few minutes for his senses to return to their defaults; he opened the bottle at a safe distance and waved it about with a flick of his wrist, allowing a thin, invisible curl of the scent to escape. Then he closed his mouth and breathed in.  
  
Oh, this was much better. Instant relief, combined with a knee-weakening sense of wistfulness, warmth, security, and something indefinable. Sherlock stood in the aisle with a glazed expression for a very long minute, then clutched the bottle that held this panacea and headed to the counter.  
  
***  
  
Once at home, Sherlock had tried to break down John’s scent methodically, in order to replicate it. He’d paced up and down, attempting to isolate the elusive ingredients. It was difficult. Sherlock _knew_ how John smelled; at this point he was certain he’d recognize his friend’s individual scent even if he were sniffing him blindfolded (Wasn’t _that_ an interesting idea!), but he knew it with his intuition and not his intelligence. This on its own was rather unsettling.  
  
Finally he’d just lain down, closed his eyes and let himself relax into the image, the memory, the feeling of John. It was far too close for comfort to all that irrational meditative stuff, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He had dozed on and off while he gradually let John fill the space in his head. Then Sherlock was able to pinpoint the closest thing that would have enough of John rubbed off on it to contain some of his essence: the Union Jack cushion. Images of tea-cups had passed in front of his inner eye, the scent of the beverage clicking into place. Then the aftershave. Then John’s shampoo. Sherlock had let himself sink deep and coax out the memory of the time he’d been the closest to John. They’d both dropped asleep the second they’d touched the sofa after 78 hours of relentless pursuit, only to wake up seven hours later with Sherlock’s face pressed into John’s neck, John’s arm draped around his shoulders. The waking had consisted of twenty very confused and three even more awkward seconds, before they’d hastily disentangled.  
  
The memory had threatened to distract Sherlock from his mission, but he managed to surf just the edge of its wave- safe enough not to be toppled by it, but close enough to bring out an association: John’s skin had the vaguest smell of biscuits. Not too sweet, not too fancy. A plain scent, but biscuity nonetheless.  
  
Sherlock went shopping.  
  
***  
  
For half an hour he’s been enjoying his twisted but wonderful equivalents of John-patches, when fate takes a shine to him and gets John to call. Sherlock answers, his voice somewhat rough. John picks up on it and asks, “Sorry—were you sleeping?”  
  
“No, no. Um. What’s going on?”  
  
“Well, the redhead’s gone to the house three times now. She’s been in there for ten minutes. Do you think she’s in danger? Should I call the police?”  
  
Even the excellent news that everything’s going according to his predictions can’t make Sherlock move from his spot of comfort.  
  
“No, she’s fine. They should both be out of the house in thirty to forty minutes. It’s very important you pay attention to the car they get into, whether it’s his or hers.”  
  
“Got it. I’ll call you.”  
  
“Wait!”  
  
Sherlock has startled himself. John’s “Yes?” indicates explanation is expected but he can’t very well say, _I’m lying here, surrounded by things that smell like you, so if you could talk to me for the next thirty minutes or even keep quiet at times—because I do need to think about the case—but you can still breathe like when you’re relaxed, that would be great, thanks_.  
  
Instead, he goes for,  
  
“How’s your day?”  
  
“How’s my—Why? What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m just enquiring after your well-being. Isn’t that what friends do?”  
  
He can picture John’s slight frown so vividly now and oh, this is _excellent_.  
  
“Yeah, it is. It’s not what you do, though.”  
  
“Well, I’m starting now. Tell me about your day. In fact, tell me about your last few days!”  
  
“Are you all right, Sherlock? Touch your temple with the back of your hand—“  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not running a fever.”  
  
Clearly John is able to visualize him pretty well, too, because he starts talking as though he can see the traces of petulance on Sherlock’s face.  
  
Sherlock balances the phone between his shoulder and his chin, then uses his hands to open the aftershave and leave it on the table. He rests his head back onto the cushion, crushes the remaining biscuit crumbs between his fingers, and brings them to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/11009.html) at my Livejournal. Next: Sight!


End file.
